


November

by Elvendork



Series: Calendar Verse [3]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Family, Fluff, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 05:31:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvendork/pseuds/Elvendork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which everyone gets a new friend, some people get cake, and some people are sore losers.</p><p>Part of the Calendar Verse, which started from a prompt asking for MJN as an actual family. Can more or less stand alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	November

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, firstly, thank you to everyone who has been reading this series up to now. It’s a ridiculous amount of fun to write and right now I don’t ever want to stop. That said, this was the hardest one so far – still fun, just more challenging – so massive, massive thanks to Prettybirdy979 for encouragement and beta-ing, and to Linguini, for encouragement and (probably unintentional) guilt-tripping me into focusing.
> 
> “Officially”, this is only a proper crossover with Sherlock. There are several other fandoms that make cameo appearances though – I just couldn’t resist – so see if you can spot them and let me know. Don’t worry – you don’t need to be familiar with any of them for this to make sense, they really only have very brief mentions. 
> 
> Future fanfictions in this series should re-focus solely on the Cabin Pressure characters, at least in leading roles, so if the crossover isn’t your thing but you like the series you don’t need to worry. If you want to skip this one they’re all pretty much designed to be more or less stand-alone anyway.
> 
> I do not own Cabin Pressure or Sherlock or any of the other fandoms referenced.
> 
> Anyway, stupidly long note is over. Enjoy the story.

‘I’m _bored_ ,’ Theresa complains, throwing her head back in frustration and slapping her palms against the wooden floor behind her. ‘I hate the rain.’

‘We could play Princesses again,’ Molly suggests tentatively, picking at her shoelace.

‘I’m sick of playing Princesses,’ Theresa retorts irritably; even rescuing Martin from dragons loses its attraction after a while. She glowers at the windows, watching the downpour responsible for their imprisonment with supreme distaste. They can’t even play Aeroplanes anymore because the last time they tried Mr Fell told them off for running indoors.

They are currently trapped in the assembly hall of Fitton Primary with the rest of the lower school, waiting out the torrential rain before their afternoon lessons. The room is crowded and noisy; Theresa watches absently as a frazzled-looking Mr Fell sets down a crate of books on the floor. A blonde girl from their own year and a dark haired boy from the year above whom Theresa doesn’t know dive on it immediately and start rummaging through; Mr Fell winces at the rough treatment, but seems relieved to have provided a less active pastime for the children, at least.

Theresa’s gaze slowly sweeps the hall in search of inspiration. She, Martin and Molly are sitting cross-legged in the corner furthest from the floor-to-ceiling windows, surrounded by abandoned scraps of half-finished drawings and grubby crayons. Arthur and his friend Tim Buckley are not far away, completely absorbed in something messy involving a lot of glue and glitter. Adam and his friends from the year below are throwing play-doh pellets at the back of Mr Fell’s head.

On the other side of the hall, tucked into the opposite corner under a table, Theresa spots their salvation. She grins and gets to her feet; Martin and Molly exchange looks and follow suit.

‘Come on,’ says Theresa, still grinning wickedly, ‘I’ve got an idea.’

‘What is it?’ asks Martin nervously, glancing around to try and find the source of her sudden glee. Theresa points, and Martin goes pale. Molly looks torn between absolute terror and frantic excitement.

‘ _They’re_ always doing something interesting,’ Theresa replies smoothly.

‘But – but –’ Martin thinks desperately for an excuse. ‘I – I don’t think they’ll let us play with them,’ he finishes eventually. The truth is that he _hopes_ they won’t. The two boys hiding under the table Theresa pointed to scare him. Or at least, the taller one does.

‘They will,’ says Theresa confidently. Martin hesitates. ‘Oh, come _on_ , Martin,’ she coaxes, part impatient and part encouraging, ‘it’s better than not doing _anything_. Are _you_ coming, Molly?’

‘I’m –’ Molly looks nervously between Martin, Theresa, and the boys in the corner. ‘Okay,’ she agrees quietly.

‘Well then,’ Theresa puts her hands on her hips and gives Martin a look that reminds him uncomfortably of his mother, ‘are you going to join in, or are you going to stay here on your own?’ Then she softens, ‘Don’t worry, we won’t let them hurt you,’ she assures him; Molly looks startled to be included in this statement, but does her best to look fierce and protective nevertheless. It doesn’t work very well.

‘What if they say no?’

‘They won’t,’ Theresa replies promptly, then turns on her heel and marches off to the corner, not doubting for a moment that her two friends will follow. They do, albeit slowly. When she reaches the table she stops and waits for them to catch up and then – with Martin and Molly standing either side of her like ineffectual bodyguards – puts on her most winning smile.

‘Hello,’ she says brightly. The taller of the two boys – the curly haired, pale one – turns briefly to scowl at her, before shifting so that he has his back to them and continuing to whisper to his friend. ‘I said _hello_ ,’ Theresa repeats.

‘Hello,’ the smaller boy with the kindly smile looks up at her apologetically. ‘Do you want to join in?’

‘Yes please!’ Theresa beams, as though such a thought had never crossed her mind and she is simply flattered to be asked. She sits down with a flourish and gestures at her friends to do the same. Molly sits as close to the tall boy as she dares, which is still almost behind Theresa, and Martin hesitantly settles down between Theresa and the kind boy.

‘I’m John,’ says the kind boy, ‘this is Sherlock.’

‘Theresa, Martin, Molly,’ Theresa says, pointing at each in turn. ‘What are you doing?’

‘It’s _private_ ,’ Sherlock mutters irritably.

‘Planning,’ says John, ignoring Sherlock and looking quite proud to be the spokesman of the pair.

‘Planning what?’ Martin asks boldly, leaning over to try and catch a glimpse of the piece of paper on the floor in front of Sherlock, who is still turned away from their haphazard semi-circle.

‘Our treasure hunt,’ John explains. Theresa’s eyes glitter with excitement.

‘I _told_ you they’d be doing something interesting,’ she announces triumphantly.

‘It’s _ours_ ,’ says Sherlock, throwing a nasty look over his shoulder which ends up shared equally between Martin and John. Martin flinches, but John barely reacts. ‘It’s not for _you_. Go away.’

‘They can help, can’t they?’ asks John reasonably.

‘ _No_.’

‘They can be the distraction,’ John presses. Martin looks startled – he’s heard enough stories to know being the distraction never bodes well. He thinks briefly of The Lion King and decides if anyone tries to put him in a skirt, he’s not playing anymore, no matter what Theresa says.  Sherlock, to Martin’s horror, looks thoughtful. He finally turns around and surveys them critically.

‘Have you been on a pirate ship before?’ he asks. John tries not to look too pleased with himself.

‘No, but we’ve flown lots of aeroplanes,’ Molly replies, looking stunned at her own daring.

‘Aeroplanes are different from pirate ships,’ Sherlock answers in a superior sort of voice. ‘You’d have to do exactly what I said.’

‘Does that mean we can join?’ Molly asks in a rush. Theresa has a mulish look on her face which says quite clearly that she doesn’t plan on being bossed around by _anyone_ , and just dares Sherlock to even try.

‘Go on, Sherlock,’ says John, ‘it’ll be fun.’

Sherlock narrows his eyes. It _would_ be easier to have more people, he supposes. And he can always have them walk the plank if they annoy him.

‘Fine,’ he huffs eventually, ‘but I decide who gets the treasure.’

‘Can I be Captain?’ Martin blurts suddenly, his eyes wide at the thought.

‘No. I’m the Captain,’ Sherlock tells him shortly.

‘Martin’s a good Captain,’ Molly pipes up, having seemingly found her courage – although still speaking quickly, as though determined to get the words out before she loses it again.

‘No.’

‘Please?’ Martin tries, ‘I promise I won’t mess it up. I’ve been Captain _loads_ of times when we were playing Aeroplanes  and Douglas lets me be Captain, sometimes, and – and –’ he casts around a little desperately, ‘and you can have my share of the treasure.’

Sherlock pauses. ‘All of it?’ he asks. Martin nods. Sherlock’s brow creases thoughtfully and he looks at John, who nods. ‘Okay,’ he agrees slowly. Martin grins.

‘Thank you!’

‘But you still have to do as I say.’

‘But –’

‘Do you want to be Captain or not?’

‘Of course,’

‘Then you have to do as I say or you can’t play with us,’ then he pauses, ‘or what John says if I’m not there.’

‘Shall we shake on it, then?’ Theresa prompts, holding out her hand imperiously. John takes it, then they go around the group and everyone shakes hands with everyone else. Then, formalities over with, they shuffle around until they are sitting in a rough circle around the piece of paper. Sherlock’s treasure map looks, to anyone in a position to recognise it (in other words, he and John) rather like a badly drawn diagram of his house. Theresa leans forward eagerly; even Sherlock looks less reluctant now.

‘So where is this treasure, then?’

00000

At the exact same moment on the other side of Fitton, Douglas has just tied for first place in the school chess tournament. The other boy is two years older than Douglas, although not much taller; he has a chubby face, dark reddish hair, and gives the distinct impression of being someone not used to sharing his victories.

00000

When Douglas arrives home later that afternoon, he seems surprisingly cheerful for someone who is only carrying half the prize money that was the sole purpose for his entering the tournament in the first place – that and his bet with Karl, at any rate.

The fact is that it was worth sharing just to see the look on Mycroft Holmes’s face when a boy two years his junior had proved impossible to beat. Okay, so Douglas didn’t actually _win_ , but reaching stalemate against the hitherto undefeated champion after over two hours of infuriatingly evenly matched play had been…extremely satisfying. Mycroft’s expression had been one of mingled horror and astonishment, though he had soon schooled it into polite acceptance and had shaken Douglas’s hand amicably enough when the result was announced.

All in all, Douglas is quite happy to label this day as a roaring success.

00000

When Mycroft gets home he ignores Sherlock completely – not an unusual occurrence of late – and walks straight past his questioning mother – highly unusual. He immediately makes for his bedroom and strides quickly over to the large oak wardrobe in the corner, dragging a stool over to retrieve the delicate glass chess set from the top shelf. He sets it up on the floor without a word to Sherlock, who has followed him upstairs and is hovering curiously in the doorway.

For the next hour Mycroft silently plays through the game by himself, replicating each and every move he and his younger opponent made, searching for a flaw. He needs to know if there is anything he could have done differently, any move he could have made that would have affected the outcome. He needs to find the mistake that led to this failure – his first ever. Or, if there was no mistake, if there really was no way he could have won, no matter what, he needs to satisfy himself on that point once and for all.

He’s not sure which outcome would be worse.

00000

Sherlock watches Mycroft for a while and questions him incessantly but receives no answer – barely even an acknowledgement of his presence. Mycroft is too focused on his task. Eventually Sherlock becomes bored and gives up; he has more important things to do anyway.

He has a pirate raid to plan.

00000

Both Carolyn and Mrs Holmes are overjoyed – if puzzled – by their sons’ new friendships (or, in Mycroft and Douglas’s case, heavy rivalry and wary respect). Douglas at least rarely has trouble finding playmates, but until meeting Theresa – and, through her, Molly – Martin has always been somewhat left out, usually too preoccupied by his obsession with flying for the other children to put up with for long. Likewise, apart from John, Sherlock has generally been a very solitary boy, and Mycroft has never exactly been _lonely_ , but none of his peers have ever been close enough to his equal to be considered _friends_ before.

So to find Mycroft suddenly with a worthy rival, Sherlock (albeit reluctantly) as part of a consistent _group_ , and Martin happily involved in something that doesn’t revolve around aeroplanes…it is an immense relief, and it baffles their respective parents.

Neither mother is sure what to make of it, but they are both extremely grateful. Little do they suspect the seething roil of challenges and plots that are behind the sudden companionship of their sons.

00000

Two weeks after their first meeting, Sherlock’s plan is ready to be put into action.

Their base of operations is in Sherlock’s bedroom under an old sheet which has been hung, tent-like, over a broken lamp at one end and a clothes horse at the other. It’s a tight fit, but all six children just about manage to squeeze underneath provided Arthur (who has joined them at Carolyn’s insistence – officially so he is not left out, unofficially so she can have some rare time alone with her fiancé) sits on Martin’s lap. Sherlock has his map spread across his knees and is consulting a heavy compass with a serious expression on his face, ruined slightly by the fact he has to use his free hand to hold the too-big pirate hat from slipping over his eyes.

‘Where did you get that?’ asks Arthur after several minutes of complete silence, reaching for the compass. Martin pushes his brother’s arm back down, embarrassed on his behalf by the interruption. Sherlock looks up impatiently.

‘My Auntie Lyra gave it to me,’ he replies.

‘What does it do?’

‘It tells us which way to go.’

‘ _Brilliant_!’

‘Yes, but only I’m allowed to read it so stop snatching.’

‘I’m not snatching, I only wanted a look!’

‘Arthur, shush,’ Martin instructs, with a pleading look towards Molly, who is less sitting and more sort of folded in beside him. She puts her finger to her lips and then crosses her eyes, which makes Arthur giggle noisily but at least distracts him from the compass.

‘ _Anyway_ ,’ says Sherlock pointedly, tucking the compass into his pocket and lifting a slightly bent plastic sword in its place. ‘Does everybody know the plan?’

Five heads nod obediently. Two of them are wearing makeshift paper hats, courtesy of Arthur, one has an eye-patch, one a hair-slide with a parrot on it, and Theresa is wearing a plastic tiara.

‘Me and John will look in the kitchen,’ Sherlock explains anyway, just to be sure, and because he can’t resist the opportunity to boss the others around again. ‘Molly and Arthur can search Mycroft’s room. Mother is in the greenhouse at the other end of the garden so she probably won’t notice anything. She told Mycroft to keep an eye on us –’ (here, Sherlock pulls a face which shows exactly what he thinks of that idea) ‘– but he’s probably too busy with his stupid chess game to bother.  Just in case, Martin and Theresa are lookouts and distractions if we need them. The signal is to sing “A Pirate’s Life For Me, okay?’ Five more nods. Originally Molly and Arthur had been slated as the lookout/distractions, until the rest of them had realised that Arthur was far more likely to get them caught than warn them of danger, so they had swapped. ‘We’ll meet back here in half an hour.’ (Another change of plan – the others had wanted to use Sherlock’s tree-house as their rendezvous but Martin had flatly refused. Sherlock had only agreed to the swap once John pointed out that his mother was likely to spot them if they went outside anyway.) ‘Agreed, Captain?’ Sherlock asks Martin, who sits up straight with a thrill of pride while Arthur beams with pleasure at his older brother’s happiness.

‘Agreed,’ Martin replies. ‘Good…good luck, crew.’

‘Good luck, Skip!’ Arthur exclaims, jumping from Martin’s lap excitedly and promptly getting his feet caught in the sheet, dragging it down from its supports and tangling the entire group in it. (He learned the term from Herc only two days ago and has taken to calling Martin Skip or Skipper at every opportunity. Martin tries to pretend he hasn’t noticed, but secretly glows with accomplishment every time it happens.) It takes almost two minutes to escape from the tangle of the sheet and each other’s legs, but eventually all six children are standing in the ruins of their once-fort, Sherlock’s hat askew, John’s eye-patch slipping and Theresa’s hair ruffled but otherwise none the worse for wear. Every eye is gleaming with the anticipation of adventure. One last look is exchanged; one last nod, and then they each solemnly shake hands and begin to pair off. Martin and Theresa leave first, creeping downstairs to check what Mycroft and Douglas are doing. John and Sherlock are not far behind. Molly and Arthur have the shortest distance to travel, just across the landing to Mycroft’s bedroom; they do it at a stealthy crouch and without looking back.

Martin, feeling giddy with a combination of nerves and excitement, can hardly believe his luck at being included in this group, let alone given a position of responsibility in their mission. He is determined not to disappoint them. He holds his breath as he edges down the stairs, trying not to make a sound. Theresa is just ahead of him and he takes care to follow exactly in her footsteps, avoiding any patch that Sherlock has told them risks creaking. They have to miss one step altogether, and Martin almost falls; he has to grip the handrail and extend his foot slowly, slowly…testing with his toe before he puts his full weight down…

Theresa is more confident but no less careful. She glances back regularly to check on Martin and, several steps behind him, John and Sherlock. All of them stop when she stops, move when she moves; it is exhilarating, and she doesn’t bother trying to conceal her wide grin.

After what feels like an age, Theresa is at the bottom of the stairs. The living room door, to her right, is cracked open just a few inches and she creeps towards it silently. Martin follows. John and Sherlock wait on the stairs, huddled together, watching. Theresa presses her eyes to the gap and then moves away so that Martin can see. Martin glances through and moves aside quickly; Mycroft has his back to the door, leaning over the chess set on the coffee table in complete concentration.  Douglas is sitting opposite him and though his attention is on the game, if he looked up he could easily see his brother’s prying eyes in the doorway. But they are both too focused to notice; Martin turns and nods to the boys waiting on the third step, and Theresa puts her finger to her lips then points down the hall towards the kitchen. She watches John and Sherlock; Martin watches Mycroft and Douglas. Both of them keep their ears open for any sound either from the chess players, from Arthur and Molly upstairs, or from Mrs Holmes outside. Martin doesn’t think his heart has ever beaten this fast.

00000

‘I’ll check over here,’ Molly whispers, pointing towards the wardrobe. ‘You look under the bed, okay?’ Arthur nods and moves across the room in an exaggerated, cartoonish creeping motion.

Molly can’t believe her luck any more than Martin and is no less frightened of letting her new friends down, but she grits her teeth and concentrates on her assigned task. Her whole being is alive with the sense that this is wrong, that she could get into trouble, she shouldn’t be doing this, but at the same time she is breathless with excitement and adrenalin.

She is reluctant to open the wardrobe unless she has to – this is not her room, not even her house, and much as she wants to impress her companions she doesn’t want to be caught rifling through someone else’s private possessions. She checks behind and under it first, just to be safe, then drags a stool over and tries to reach the top but is still much too small. She glances around to see Arthur’s legs sticking out from under the bed and has an idea.

00000

John and Sherlock are in the kitchen. They are after the real prize, the not-so-secret treasure hoard that is the whole purpose of this venture. Having spare crew members available to search Mycroft’s room for additional bounty is an unexpected bonus, though not one that they intend to waste.

Sherlock’s primary objective has always been the kitchen. He stands in the doorway with John by his side and surveys the room, which could contain any number of hiding places for even a large birthday cake. With this many options available, so little time to choose and the constant threat of discovery looming over their heads, Martin or Molly might have panicked. Even Theresa would probably be more than a little daunted. Sherlock is in his element.

Silently, John moves towards the window that looks out onto the back garden so he can keep an eye out for Sherlock’s mother. Sherlock gets to work.

Many of the cupboards are out of Sherlock’s reach and many more out of John’s. This is hardly likely to stop them, though; it would be easy enough to climb onto the worktops if they had to, so height is not a deterrent. Sherlock’s mother will know this. Then again, she might have decided to store it higher up just to be on the safe side or to delay him, so he can’t rule it out. The same goes for making any real effort to hide it; ultimately she must know it wouldn’t work, but the longer it takes for him to find it, the more chance there is of being caught.

So first of all, where can he rule out?

The drawers, of course, and probably any of the cupboards surrounding the oven because the heat might damage the cake. Under the sink because she doesn’t keep food there; that’s where the cleaning products are. The cereal cupboard and where the soft drinks are kept, because he regularly uses them himself. That still leaves all but one of the higher shelves and most of the lower ones, though. Sherlock smirks. He is enjoying this.

00000

Martin and Theresa take turns putting their eyes to the crack in the doorway to spy on the two older boys, who both seem too engrossed in their game to notice anything out of the ordinary. They have been having these re-matches every time they’ve seen each other for the last two weeks in a (so far futile) effort to find out who is definitively the better player.

00000

‘Can you see anything?’ Molly asks, gripping Arthur’s ankles tightly to prevent him from falling. She is on her tiptoes on the stool pressed up against the wardrobe; Arthur is standing on her shoulders and leaning over the top, swaying dangerously as he shifts for a better view, or to reach for something.

‘There’s a box,’ Arthur replies. ‘I can get it if I…’ his feet start to leave Molly’s shoulders and she hangs on even tighter.

‘No, don’t – you’ll fall!’ she feels herself wobbling with the effort of holding him in place and has to take one hand away to brace it against the side of the wardrobe, ‘Arthur, don’t!’ she whispers urgently.

‘I’m okay,’ Arthur assures her cheerfully – and loudly – wriggling out of her grasp and onto the top of the wardrobe. He barely fits between it and the ceiling.

‘Arthur!’ Molly is momentarily paralysed with fear. She hops down from the stool and backs away so she can see him better, hands pressed against her cheeks and eyes wide. ‘Arthur, _please_!’

‘Look!’ Arthur exclaims, shuffling to the edge and holding out a slightly battered cardboard box that is remarkably free of dust. ‘Sweets!’

‘Arthur, just – umm – look, pass me the sweets, okay? And then I’ll help you get down.’

Lying flat on his stomach, Arthur holds both arms out and lowers the box of sweets as far as he can, which brings it just within reach of the tips of Molly’s fingers when she stands on tiptoe. She takes it quickly and puts in on the bed behind her before turning back.

‘Okay good – that was good, Arthur. Can you – no, wait! I’ll get the stool and –’ but Arthur is already turning around and sticking his feet off the edge, shuffling backwards – then his knees are over and his thighs, and only his torso remains on the wardrobe. Molly grabs the stool and scrambles up to stand beneath him, heart beating wildly, arms up ready to catch him.

It’s going well. She has her hands on his waist and he has his still gripping the top of wardrobe. If he just lets go slowly she can take his weight and –

‘That tickles!’

Arthur lets go and squirms, and they both fall to the floor with a resounding crash.

00000

For one long second, everything in the house seems to stop. Then another. And another.

Molly and Arthur hold their breath. Neither of them dare move. Molly has her eyes squeezed shut.

Martin gasps but freezes instinctively and Theresa has to pull him back before Douglas or Mycroft see him.

John’s eyes widen fearfully and he glances around at Sherlock, who shakes his head once to indicate they shouldn’t do anything yet. Running would only make them look guilty. They stand as still as they are able and don’t make a sound. They are both well practised at this.

Douglas frowns and glances up absently just as Martin’s face disappears from the doorway. Mycroft starts to turn around. Quickly concealing a smirk, Douglas moves his only remaining bishop to take one of Mycroft’s castles, and Mycroft’s attention returns to the game.

00000

It’s probably no more than thirty seconds or so before every child in Sherlock’s motley crew breathes a collective sigh of relief, but for them it feels like at least a year.

Molly gets slowly to her feet, gently pushing Arthur away and trying not to tremble too much.

‘Come on,’ she whispers, grabbing the box in one hand and Arthur’s wrist in the other. They’ve barely scratched the surface of what could be in this room, but she doesn’t think her nerve will last long enough to find anything else. They return to Sherlock’s room to wait.

00000

Neither Martin nor Theresa dare risk discovery by looking around the door again, but they both listen with all of their might for the slightest indication of a disturbance. No one has called out, no one is singing, and no one is demanding to know what they are doing here, so they stay and do their job – just a little more cautiously than before.

00000

John and Sherlock remain still for slightly longer than any of the other children. They are the closest to Mrs Holmes, after all, and therefore the most likely to get into trouble if she notices anything is amiss. John’s eyes dart between the window – through which he can just see the greenhouse door (mercifully still closed) and Sherlock. Sherlock’s alternate between John and scanning the kitchen cupboards for inspiration.

He doesn’t panic. No matter what anyone might accuse of him later if they found out how he actually discovers the cake, he will always insist that he does not panic. He just acts quickly.

It takes approximately ten seconds after the other children have all relaxed for Sherlock to make his decision.

He dives towards the cupboard under the sink.

It’s one of the _least_ likely places for his mother to hide the cake. It’s full of cleaning products and at ground level, easily within reach of even Arthur. But it’s one of very few cupboards he’s actively _not allowed_ in – until last year it was actually kept locked. And his mother must _know_ he would rule it out as a possibility – therefore, it is actually the _most_ likely location.

Or at least he hopes so. He doesn’t guess. It _isn’t_ a guess – he will deny that even more vehemently than accusations of panic.

He pulls open the door (almost knocking John to the ground in process) and sees it. Half hidden behind bottles and cloths and a plastic crate of clothes’ pegs, is a box that Sherlock has never seen before. (Just because he’s not technically _allowed_ to look, doesn’t mean he hasn’t.) He shoves the bottles aside and pulls the box out – John starts repositioning them as soon as Sherlock is clear and opening the flimsy white cardboard lid to check the box’s contents.

Sherlock grins.

‘Let’s go,’ he says – John pushes the remaining items back into roughly the same position they were in before and follows Sherlock as he rushes from the kitchen, flinching at the sound of the cupboard closing behind them.

‘Come on!’ John hisses to Theresa and Martin as they pass, and the two of them look almost faint with relief. The four of them half run, half creep up the stairs – moving as quickly and quietly as they can, Martin and Theresa constantly glancing back in case of pursuit, Sherlock cradling the prize with a triumphant gleam in his eyes, and John splitting his attention between all three of the others in case one falls and he has to catch them.

When they reach Sherlock’s room they collapse on top of the remains of their fort panting as though they have run a marathon, and not just up the stairs. Theresa is the first to speak.

‘That – was – so – _cool_!’ she whispers, beaming. ‘That was a _mazing_! Did you get it? Is that it?’ The adrenalin makes it difficult for her to sit still, and she fidgets and jumps up, pointing to the box still clutched in Sherlock’s hands and then starting to tug the sheet out from under her companions.

‘This is it,’ says Sherlock, visibly preening at the show of apparent admiration. ‘I _told_ you it would go okay if you all did as I said.’

John grins bashfully, knowing what he just did is bound to get him in trouble eventually and unable to worry too much about it now that they are in the relative safety of his best friend’s room. It has all the false but insurmountable feeling of security of every child’s play-fort anywhere, as sacrosanct and inviolable as the base in a game of tag. No one would dare breach its defences – at least in the mind of every child there at that moment. Even Molly and Arthur, still shaken after their fall, are smiling, until Molly remembers the reason for the sudden hurry and blushes.

‘Sorry about the noise,’ she says quietly, looking at her hands rather than her friends’ faces. ‘We – we fell.’

‘That’s okay, we didn’t get caught,’ Theresa says encouragingly, glaring at Sherlock as though daring him to contradict her.

‘Are you okay?’ asks John kindly. Molly nods and manages a weak smile.

‘We found sweets!’ Arthur reminds her.

‘Good,’ says Sherlock, suddenly business-like. ‘Now we need to rebuild the ship before we can share out the treasure, so hop to it crew!’ Martin’s mouth twitches as though about to say something, but he remains silent. Sherlock, to his credit, momentarily looks apologetic, but it passes too quickly for any of the others to notice.

Within a few minutes the sheet is stretched out over the lamp and the clothes horse again, and the six children are crawling underneath to arrange themselves around the treasure hoard in the middle. Martin is biting his lip as though regretting his offer to be Captain on the condition of forfeiting his right to a share. Arthur is fidgeting with eagerness and Martin struggles to hold him still.

They share the sweets out first. Or rather, Sherlock does. He peers approvingly into the slightly battered cardboard box brought back from Mycroft’s room and pulls out bags of jelly babies, tubes of smarties, three small chocolate bars, five sugar mice – just about anything that they could want, stuffed into the box and hidden away for Mycroft’s sole use. Well, thinks Sherlock self-righteously. That’s just not _fair_. Of course it’s only right that they liberate these sweets and share them out. Why should Mycroft be allowed to keep them all to himself?

At first, he splits the hoard into only five roughly equal piles. Martin looks dejected but determined not to complain, at the risk of losing his tentative Captaincy. John is the one who protests, and at long last Martin receives a sugar mouse and two jelly babies. It’s less than any of the others get, but he seems perfectly happy with it. (In any case, Arthur continuously – and not very subtly – slips him handfuls of smarties, which the others pretend not to notice).

Then comes the cake.

It is large and rectangular, coated with thick white icing which is decorated with the words _Happy Birthday Mycroft_ in bright red, looping script. Little silver edible ball bearings are scattered across the surface, sometimes gathered into clusters that radiate outwards like stars.

Molly looks a little guilty.

‘Are you sure…are you sure we should do this?’ she asks quietly. Stealing the sweets was one thing – this is…different. This is something that was especially for Mycroft, and it looks like it took _work_.

‘You wanted to join in,’ Sherlock retorts, pushing away the tiniest glimmer of self-reproach as he does. ‘We didn’t _make_ you come with us.’

‘I – I know, but – but we’re _stealing_ –’

‘Mycroft has loads of sweets,’ Sherlock interrupts. ‘He’s not going to miss them. Mother will just get another cake. And anyway, we’re not _stealing_ , we’re commandeering.’

Only John seems to understand this word – the others (except Arthur, who is not following the conversation but instead arranging his sweets into colour-coded piles) all exchange puzzled looks, but none of them ask for an explanation. They don’t want to appear stupid, and Sherlock’s patience is obviously wearing thin.

They use Sherlock’s plastic sword to cut the cake. The pieces are as equal as John (who tells Sherlock where to cut) can make them, and he even insists Martin gets one, although Sherlock insists it is one without writing and with minimal ball bearings because otherwise the entire Captaincy deal is meaningless.

Martin doesn’t eat his share; he thanks John and waits until none of the others are paying any attention to him, then tugs a clean tissue from his pocket, wraps the cake in it, and hides it away. He doesn’t notice Theresa frowning at him – her attention is quickly diverted, anyway.

‘What are you _doing_ , Arthur?’

‘Making a sandwich,’ Arthur explains cheerfully. Inside the icing, the sponge of the cake is split into two layers, the inside of which is filled with cream – Arthur has taken apart the layers and is lining his share of jelly babies along it in coloured stripes. His hands are covered in sugar and cream, and bits of fluff and thread from his clothing and the carpet are starting to stick to them.

‘You’re making a mess!’ Martin complains, ‘you’re going to get my trousers all sticky.’

‘I won’t, I promise!’

‘ _Why_ are you making a sandwich?’ Sherlock asks, somewhere between curious and exasperated. He has already eaten most of his cake.

‘I’m practising,’ says Arthur, as though it is the most reasonable thing in the world. He replaces the top of the cake – now with sadly cracked and peeling icing – on top of the layer of jelly babies, and holds it up proudly, ‘ta-da!’

‘But what are you practising _for_?’ Martin asks, brushing crumbs from his knees and wondering whether it will be completely obvious to their mum what they’ve been doing.

‘I’m going to be a chef when I grow up.’

Molly looks intrigued and impressed – and a little ill, but that is mostly from eating too much stolen sugar all at once, and she doesn’t want to admit it in case the others decide she can’t go on any future missions.

‘I don’t know what I want to be,’ she muses.

‘ _I’m_ going to be a pirate, _obviously_ ,’ says Sherlock. He looks at John, who frowns as he considers the idea.

‘I think I want to be a doctor,’ he says slowly.

‘But you’re supposed to come with me on my pirate ship!’ Sherlock looks, for a moment, genuinely worried. His expression doesn’t quite have time to morph into haughty disinterest before John reassures him.

‘I can be the ship’s doctor, then,’ he says, beaming. ‘What about you, Martin?’

‘I want to be a pilot,’ says Martin, his eyes glazing over slightly at the thought. ‘Like Herc.’ He glances at Theresa to complete the impromptu announcements. She looks thoughtful.

‘I don’t know. I think being a pilot would be exciting. We could go on flights together!’

Martin grins and blushes.

‘But which one of you would be the Captain?’ asks Molly.

‘Oh, we can take it in turns,’ says Theresa carelessly. ‘And we can have our own secret base when John and Sherlock take over an island, and –’

‘Who says you get to land on our island?’ demands Sherlock. He seems to assume that their having an entire island to themselves is, of course, a given.

‘I do,’ says John, ‘they can take us on holidays when we get bored of sailing.’

‘I’ll _never_ get bored of sailing,’

‘Fine then, you can stay on the island all by yourself –’

‘I won’t be by myself; Arthur can cook for me –’

‘I thought you said no one was allowed on your island?’ Theresa challenges,

‘I never _said_ that,’ Sherlock argues. ‘I just said I hadn’t said you _could_. I’ve decided you can.’

‘Well maybe I don’t want to now.’

‘You _said_ –’

‘What about Molly?’ John interrupts. Molly looks startled at being included again. ‘She’s got to come, too.’

‘Oh, we’ll find something,’ Theresa assures her, patting her friend on the shoulder. ‘She can be…our spy, or – or draw the maps! We’re not leaving her _behind_ anyway.’ She adds this in the hope of forestalling any contradictions from Sherlock, but for once the thought doesn’t even seem to have crossed his mind. He is gazing into the distance slightly, a smile unfurling on his face that John is extremely familiar with; it means he has made a plan, and is happy with it. And when Sherlock makes plans, only Sherlock gets to decide against them.

‘It’s going to be _brilliant_ ,’ he sighs.

00000

A little over an hour later Carolyn comes to pick her sons up, and if she or Mrs Holmes notice the residual sugar on Arthur’s hands, or the bulge in Martin’s pocket where he has hidden his slice of cake, they don’t mention it. Nor do they notice – or at least, comment on – the secretive little smirks that adorn every child’s face as they wave goodbye on the doorstep. They pass Theresa’s father on the way out, as he arrives to collect Molly and his daughter; he and Carolyn exchange a look of knowing exasperation that none of the children understand.

The ride home is a tense one, at least for Martin, who is constantly afraid that Carolyn will somehow _know_ what they’ve done. Or if she doesn’t, Arthur will accidentally reveal it. Or he will. Or _Douglas_ will know, and will reveal it on purpose, and –

It’s a tense ride home.

As soon as he can do so without seeming suspicious, Martin dashes upstairs to his room, hoping that Douglas will follow. He does. It means leaving Arthur unattended with Carolyn, without Martin there to censor his speech so that he doesn’t give them away, but he has to do that sooner or later anyway. And hopefully Carolyn will brush it off as elaboration if it comes from Arthur. It’s more important to get Douglas on his side.

‘Well?’ says Douglas as soon as they are alone and Martin turns to face him. ‘What were you actually up to?’

‘You saw us, didn’t you?’

‘I saw _you_. I assume the others were with you. Or you were keeping an eye on me and Mycroft while the others got up to something or other they shouldn’t have been.’

‘I – yeah. That. The second one. You won’t tell Mum, will you?’

Douglas raises an eyebrow and folds his arms, regarding his brother’s pleading face with cool indifference. ‘That depends.’

‘I brought you a slice of cake,’ Martin says, pulling the – now slightly squashed – offering from his pocket.

‘ _Now_ you’re talking,’ Douglas grins, taking it.

‘So you won’t tell?’

‘We’ll see.’

‘ _Douglas_. Please, please don’t tell, we’ll be in so much trouble, and –’

‘It’s fine. I won’t tell.’

‘Really?’

‘Really – _oof_!’ Martin beams with relief and throws his arms around Douglas, knocking the breath out of his older brother sharply. ‘Alright – you can let go now. Or I just _might_ tell.’

‘Sorry,’ Martin steps back quickly, ducking his head in apology but unable to stop smiling.

‘Right. Well, now we’ve got that sorted…’ he turns to leave, but Martin calls out to stop him.

‘Wait – why didn’t you tell Mycroft? You _didn’t_ tell Mycroft did you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Well…why?’

‘Because if I can’t beat him at chess – yet – I might as well have _something_ over him.’

00000

Later that evening, once John has gone home and Mycroft and Sherlock are both distracted, Mrs Holmes checks the cupboard under the sink and finds exactly what she expects to find. She’ll probably have to have a word with Sherlock about that, but not right now. Both boys are being unusually calm and cooperative with each other, and she doesn’t want to spoil that just yet.

Just to be safe, she also checks in the back of the very top corner cupboard – as far out of the way and difficult to reach as it could possibly get in this room. There, exactly where it is supposed to be, is another, slightly larger and much more elaborate cake, completely untouched.

She hasn’t been a mother for fourteen years for nothing.

00000

Carolyn doesn’t ask about the crumbs on Martin’s jacket, or request details from Arthur about their “treasure hunt”. At least, she doesn’t ask her sons. They aren’t the only ones to have made a friend from the Holmes family recently.

00000

Martin’s dreams that night are a confused jumble of images all loosely based around aeroplanes, often involving flying them with Douglas or Theresa and eating strange meals of Arthur’s invention. Arthur dreams of sweets and himself in a chef’s hat. Douglas dreams of chess – of winning – and smiles.


End file.
